


Souls shine brighter in the dark

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Branding, Captivity, Imprisonment, M/M, Medical Examination, Medical Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Sexual Slavery, Non-consensual Soul Touching - Freeform, Restraints, Soul Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24819940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: This will be Edge's fifth roommate, and by now he knows better than to let himself get attached. Rus is too soft, too fragile and altogether unsuited to the work they've been drafted for as living anatomy models for the humans to test new and inventive ways of breaking and healing the body.Rus isn't likely to last, no matter how desperately Edge wants him to.
Relationships: Papyrus/Papyrus (Undertale), Spicyhoney, Underfell Papyrus/Underswap Papyrus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	Souls shine brighter in the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hj_skb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hj_skb/gifts).



> This fic is pure self-indulgence of all my shameless body-horror and torturous captivity fantasies, and all the credit goes to [hj_skb](https://twitter.com/hj_skb) who came up with the glorious foundation for this idea. This fic is not full of happy fun times, and there is a stronger than usual chance that it won't actually have a good end (though it may have an ambiguous maybe-not-all-hope-is-lost one, IDK yet, we'll see how it pans out). There will be plenty of psychological, emotional and physical trauma, because it is very much my jam and I delight in writing it. Please make sure you read all the warnings as each chapter is updated! It will probably only get worse from here.

“Oi, thirty-seven!”

Edge glances warily up from his book, eyeing the orderly with a distaste that’s carefully masked beneath an expression of aloof but unchallenging stoicism. It’s his designated period of free time in the courtyard to enjoy a painfully brief taste of free air and sunlight -- what little penetrates past the thick, high walls -- and if his paltry downtime is being cut short he’s going to be aggravated. Unable to do anything about it, of course, but aggravated all the same.

The orderly is one of the nastier ones. His small piggish eyes and leering smile turns Edge’s non-existent stomach with all the memories of being under this man’s guard during the desterilisation showers. His meaty fist is wrapped around the arm of a monster Edge doesn’t recognise but his soul squeezes in startled recognition. He hasn’t seen another skeleton since forty-two was dusted during the crash-test accident. 

“You’re getting a new roommate,” the orderly announces, dragging the other skeleton forward abruptly enough to make them stumble. The human gives a lecherous grin, eyeing his charge with a look that stirs Edge’s long-suppressed LV. “This is sixty-nine. Been waiting to give someone this number, and it looks like it fits too.”

The skeleton -- male, Edge thinks, from the contours of their skull -- looks terrified, wide-eyed and vulnerable. His white, ill-fitting hospital scrubs are both too short and yet too wide. The sleeveless tunic threatens to slip off right off his shoulder whilst the pants sag at the hip. Edge tries not to stare overlong at the illicit glimpses of iliac crests and collar-bones. Like Edge, he has his designation branded prominently across the bottom of his humerus, in the crook of the elbow. The burn-etched numbers look fresh and raw.

“You get to show him the ropes,” the orderly tells Edge, giving the new skeleton a pointed shove in his direction. “Teach him how to behave, since you learned those lessons so well, eh?”

Edge doesn’t let his expression change, and the orderly gives an ugly laugh as he turns and walks away. The new skeleton stands frozen and unsure like an unmanned puppet, no longer knowing how to move or what to do without someone actively directing him. Edge hopes that’s just a temporary state and not one that’s been permanently trained into him...not that there’s any point in speculating. This’ll be his fifth roommate, and by now he’s learned better than to get attached. 

Only when the orderly is well out of earshot does Edge look up at him and say, “You’re standing in my light.”

“Huh?” The skeleton blinks dumbly at him until he belatedly realise his lanky frame is blocking the angle of incoming sun, casting Edge and his book in a stark shadow. “Oh! Um…”

“Sit,” Edge orders, since his new roommate seem to need some direction. He’s quick to obey, hunkering down against the wall in a mirror of Edge’s pose, albeit without the encumbrance of the heavy cast Edge is wearing. He looks down at it with an unabashed gaze of curious horror that Edge ignores. If he can work up the courage to ask Edge about it, then Edge will tell him, but for now that much information might be too much for the newbie to handle. Even staring directly at him seems too confronting for how the other skeleton flinches and turns away. Struggling for patience, Edge redirects his gaze at his book, trying to radiate indifference instead of the defensive ire the orderly stoked in him.

“We get ten more minutes in the courtyard,” he says, turning a page without really seeing the words in front of him. “Each day we only get thirty minutes of downtime, so I suggest you don’t waste them. You need special permission for a recreation item like my book so you can’t have one today, but you can move and exercise freely out here unless one of the doctors has you on a regime of forced rest.”

Like Edge currently was, much to his displeasure. Normally he’d been pacing the courtyard on his crutches, broken leg be damned, but the last time he’d over-strained a broken bone he’d ended up prolonging the healing process which the Doctors had taken to be an attempt to shirk the next round of tests. None of Edge’s promises to be more careful had moved them. His crutches had been confiscated until the end of downtime, and if he was caught moving around without them he’d lose his hard-earned good behaviour bond.

“Next is the afternoon checkup. Sometimes it’s over fast, and sometimes they want to collect new samples which can take over an hour. Since you’re new, they’ll probably want to measure all your baselines. They’ll want a marrow sample and probably a soul swab.”

It makes Edge wonder where this other skeleton must have come from, that his behaviour is so meek and obedient, and yet he hasn’t learned to hide his expressions. The naked fear and distress on his soft face is going to draw in all the institute’s more predatory staff until he can learn to hide it. A small, callous part of Edge thinks he should just let it happen; one or two bad experiences will teach him faster and more thoroughly than any amount of warning, but the faint bruises already forming on the skeleton’s upper arm where the orderly’s sweaty hand tried to leave its proprietary claim makes him change his mind.

As gently as he can manage (which may not be much with as little practice as he’s had at it) he says, “It will be unpleasant, but let them take what they want. Don’t fight them. Difficult patients get put in isolation which is...dangerous. Try not to give them reason to seperate you. If you’re with me I can help.”

He can’t say ‘protect you’ because their service here demands a certain amount of sacrifice. What the humans are striving for will benefit all of monsterkind eventually -- at least, that’s what they’ve told him. It’s a goal worth the trivial (and sometimes not so trivial) pains and discomforts that come with their tests. It’s all tolerable, survivable...usually. It can’t be helped that monsters are intrinsically more fragile than humans are.

“Okay.”

The quiet whisper makes Edge look up, and this time the other skeleton doesn’t look away. His posture is still hunched in misery, but there’s the smallest glimmer of gratitude and admiration in his eye-lights that hits Edge harder than the mallet that broke his femur. “Thanks.”

_ Fuck _ , Edge thinks in the fiercely guarded privacy of his own thoughts. So much for not getting attached. 

* * *

The trip to the examination ward takes twice as long as usual. The crutches feel like more of an encumbrance than an aid, and his new companion’s hovering concern doesn’t help Edge’s prickled pride. Even the short journey feels exhausting, and Edge is struggling to keep his chin upright and his spine straight as he drags himself across the threshold of the waiting room.

The nurse on duty flashes him a vacantly cheerful smile limned in bright red lipstick. “Welcome back, thirty-seven. How are you feeling?”

Edge offers a non-committal grunt, silently willing her to expedite the security checks to process his attendance. Instead of touching her keyboard, however, she steeples her hands in front of her, looking past Edge with bright, interested eyes.

“I see you brought our new patient with you. I bet you must be glad to have a new roommate.”

Her blithe comment makes Edge’s jaw tic, but she doesn’t notice his reaction. Already her attention is focused on the newcomer, avidly memorising every detail to feed to the rumour mill. Edge supposes he can’t blame her; it’s been nearly eight months since their last patient intake. “What do I call you, hon?”

“Oh, um-! It’s Rus,” the other skeleton replies, peering hesitantly around Edge’s shoulder. He seems to have taken Edge’s suggestion as law, and is sticking close enough that the loose drapes of his clothing keep brushing against Edge’s side.

The nurse’s expression flickers like a faulty television screen before her eerie, unfaltering smile returns. “Sorry, hon, I mean your designation. What’s your number?”

“Oh.” The change in tone is stark. Rus glances down at his elbow, expression pulled in an unhappy grimace. “It’s...sixty-nine.”

The nurse gives a little bubble of unfortunate laughter before getting herself under control. “Aww, poor thing. Don’t let anyone give you a hard time about it, okay? It’s just a number.”

If that were the case, she wouldn’t have laughed, Edge thinks. Rus doesn’t seem to appreciate her sympathy either; his expression has locked down tight, sockets shadowed and mouth thinned in a tight line. Mercifully, the nurse turns her attention to her computer and deftly taps a few keys with long, manicured fingernails. 

“All right, the doctor will see you now,” she tells them. “Please proceed to examination room three. Do you need me to get the wheelchair again, thirty-seven?”

“I’m fine,” Edge says curtly, reluctantly readying his crutches for another graceless expedition. He’s barely completed his second clumsy hop before realising he’s lost his persistent shadow. “Hey. Don’t dawdle.”

Rus jerks, his eye-lights flickering with some fraught emotion Edge can’t identify. “R-right. Sorry.”

He slicks back to Edge’s side, frail arms wrapped around each other as he clasps a hand over the intrusive numbers on his humerus. Edge doesn’t dare reassure him, not in the open hallway where the cameras can catch every hint of noncompliance. The best he can do is radiate calm and ease, which at this point is such a well-practiced habit he’s not sure how feigned it is. He doesn’t balk as the Doctor looks up from her clipboard, her smile even more false than the nurse’s.

“Come inside,” she says, ushering them through the door. “It’s nice to meet you, sixty-nine. Today we’ll just be running through a routine check up for both of you. Thirty-seven, you can go first so we can show our new patient that there’s nothing to worry about.”

Rus offers a tentative, grateful smile. The doctor’s gentle manner, short stature and soft features seem to do a lot to put him at ease. Edge should be grateful, but he can’t entirely shake the memory of her standing over him with the mallet upraised, her eyes shielded by a pair of protective glasses against the spray of dust and bone fragments as she deliberately shattered his leg.

Still, he doesn’t hesitate to set the crutches aside move towards the examination table. He holds himself still and unflinching, letting her briskly unlace the ties on his hospital scrubs and peel them from his body until he’s standing bare in the chilly, sterile air. 

“Oh! Uh…geeze.”

Both Edge and the doctor glance up at Rus’s outburst. His face is burning with a bright golden hue, palms clapped firmly over his sockets. It takes Edge a long moment to realise he’s embarrassed by Edge’s nakedness, something that has become so commonplace to him as to be utterly inconsequential. 

The Doctor seems even more oblivious, blithely offering, “You’re welcome to watch the procedure. Thirty-seven doesn’t mind.”

Edge is used to the doctors speaking and making assumptions on his behalf. Whether he minds isn’t really the point, since by now almost every human in the facility has seen him unclothed, whether for showers, tests or routine procedures like this one. One more set of eyes on his body is meaningless by now. 

“I don’t really...uh…” Rus fumbles for an answer, and he’s lucky this is one of the few doctors for whom a suggestion is only that and not an order in disguise. He peeks at Edge through his fingers, betraying his doubtful unease, like it really is Edge’s opinion he’s concerned about and not the Doctor’s.

“Do as you like,” Edge tells him, turning his own focus to the tricky manoeuvre of vaulting up onto the table without knocking the cast and jolting his broken leg. The frictionless padding makes arranging himself an unnecessarily difficult task, but finally he manages to lie down properly, staring up at the ceiling, His fingers trace the subtle grooves where the straps come out for the more difficult procedures before he arranges them laxly at his sides, hands unclenched and loose. 

Checkups are neither the best nor worst part of Edge’s day. At best, they’re mercifully brief, and at worst they’re a tedious ordeal of cold, invasive implements jabbing into him. He’s hoping this will be more of the former as the Doctor efficiently gets to work, starting with the small hook used unnecessarily to hold his socket open as she shines a flashlight down into the recesses of his skull.

“Eye dilation is normal. Bones display a healthy colour. Magic intensity is visible and strong between the joints. Dental hygiene is optimum with no signs of stains or decay.” The doctor murmurs her notes to herself as her gloved hands run down his body, turning and pushing and twisting as needed. Edge knows to keep himself pliant and unmoving. He doesn’t turn to check if Rus decided to watch after all, but as the doctor clinically reaches into his pelvic girdle to check for any signs of inflammation or stress, there’s a strangled squeak of sound from across the room suggesting he is. 

The only time Edge properly flinches is when her hands come to rest on his leg, and that’s mostly instinct. The pain is more of a dull inconvenience than the sharp agony it was when it shattered, but it’s still sensitive. She takes a moment to scribble down some notes, probably recording his reaction, and inwardly he curses himself. He was going to try and convince her to let him keep his crutches during breaktime, but now he doubts she’ll be swayed by his arguments. 

“The healing grafts appear to be working well,” she tells him, checking the readings from the nearby scanner. “Your HP is back up to 73%. We’ll try another application in a day or two, so make sure you stay off your leg or we might have to redo the experiment from the beginning.”

It’s not a threat, just a friendly reminder. It would be unfortunate for him if they had to start over, especially if they don’t bother to wait for his existing breaks to heal. He has a whole other leg they could test with, after all, and two casts would certainly ensure he was getting the recommended amount of rest.

“All right,” he agrees, biting back any frustration. Expressing it is only likely to ensure he’s under extra strict watch for the next few days. “Are you finished?”

“Yep,” she says, flicking over to a new page on her checkerboard. “Okay, let’s get you dressed again. Sixty-nine, please remove your clothing and change places with thirty-seven.”

Edge carefully levers himself upward, keeping his weight balanced so he can ease his immobile leg off the table. It’s not a fast process, and yet even by the time he’s managed to stand and allow the doctor to re-dress him, Rus hasn’t moved. He’s standing in the corner of the room like a stupefied anatomy model, albeit one not properly unclothed for its purpose. In fact, by the way he’s gripping the hem of his shirt, he looks profoundly unwilling to part with it. 

Edge can only curse himself for not trying to prepare Rus better. All his previous roommates had come from similar facilities, often worse ones, and knew how things were going to work. It makes him wonder where Rus had come from, to be so completely unprepared for what Edge considers to be some of the easiest and least invasive aspects of his routine. 

The Doctor’s expression and tone doesn’t even change when she tells Rus, “If you need assistance, I can call one of the orderlies to assist you.”

Rus blanches, clearly thinking of the human who’d turned him over to Edge. “N-no, I can...just give me a minute.”

The blush spreads down from his skull across his collarbones and sternum as he clumsily fumbles his way out of his clothing. If Edge were more mobile, he might offer to assist, or at least pick up the articles carelessly discarded on the floor, but his balance is too precarious to make him anything but an inefficient hinderance.

The best he can do is choose not take advantage of the appealing view he’s sure Rus’s bones would offer him. There’s nothing he can do about the doctor’s need to inspect, but Edge keeps his own gaze politely averted and fixed on the far wall as Rus awkwardly shuffles his way towards the table. “Like this?”

“That’s right,” the Doctor assures him. “Now, I’ll need to examine you to get some baseline readings for our records. Can you hold still for me, or should I strap you down?”

“I can hold still,” Rus tells her quickly, his voice pitching uncomfortably into a higher octave.

“Okay,” the Doctor replies agreeably. “But if you start to have trouble, I’ll need to restrain you, understand?”

“S-sure.” Rus’s voice almost cracks on the word. Edge can hear his breathing coming in shallow, uneven huffs. Carefully directing his eyelights to so as not to linger anyplace might find uncomfortable, Edge manages to find Rus’s face. His skull his sweaty, his expression pinched with an excruciating mix of anxious distress. He catches Edge’s gaze and holds it like a lifeline, silently pleading for reassurance. 

“You’ll be fine,” Edge tells him, hopping closer. There’s a chair across the room where he could give his aching bones some relief, but he risks the doctor’s displeasure to stay beside Rus, close as he can be without seeming to interfere. “It doesn’t hurt.”

It’s a technical truth, but the way Rus squirms betrays no small amount of discomfort as the Doctor makes a thorough investigation of his body. It’s more thorough than she needed to be with Edge, whose body has already been intimately catalogued over the years. She takes swabs from his sockets and his mouth, forcing his tongue to form so she can analyse the color and viscosity of his saliva. There’s a dental mould he needs to bite down on so she can take an imprint of his teeth. She uses a clamp to pry back one of his scapulae to measure the flexibility of his magic, and uses a heavy file to take a small shaving of bone dust from his shoulder. 

Halfway through the more unpleasant measurements, Rus snatches hold of Edge’s hand and refuses to let go. Edge patiently allows the crushing of his fingers, gently squeezing back as Rus pants raggedly through the pain. He tries not to think of the cameras as he makes a soft hushing sound, soothing the miserable sob Rus makes when the Doctor grapples with the planes of his pelvis, probing with a set of sounding rods to measure the depth and diameter of his sacral foramina. He has to keep reminding himself that it’s not as bad as Rus is making it seem. It gets easier with practice. 

“Almost done,” the Doctor says, sounding almost weary herself. She’s probably used to patients who put up much less of a fuss than Rus has, though she’s been unexpectedly patient with his whimpers and twitching. “I just need the soul sample and then you can go.”

Rus is shivering in a way that has nothing to do with the over-conditioned air of the medical ward. His eyelights are dim, shrunken pinpricks almost lost in the darkness of his socket. He makes a low sound like a wounded animal, cornered and terrified. The hand that isn’t squeezing bruises into Edge’s fingers scrabbles to cover his ribs as if to add another layer of protection over his soul. Shakily, he tried, “Can we do it later? I just...I need a break.”

The Doctor purses her lips in disappointment. She gives Rus a long moment to reconsider his stance before starting to reach for her pager. “I’ll call an orderly to assist.”

“That won’t be needed,” Edge says, perhaps a little too sharply. He’s taking a risk -- his behaviour has been good for months, but his track record before that is a patchy one. It’s been a long, difficult process to earn back the privileges that come with proper compliance, and arguing with the doctors is the fastest way to lose them.

But despite his first, bitter thought that Rus might be better served if he understood how quickly things could turn unpleasant, he doesn’t want that for his new, fragile roommate. He doesn’t want to stand aside and watch as the orderlies pin Rus down with bruising force and the Doctor yanks his unwilling soul out into the presence of so many hostile aggressors. Edge knows from experience exactly how brutalising that experience can be.

So he puts his free hand atop Rus’s, applying measured pressure to his sternum, letting the gentle weight ground him. “Rus.”

The use of his true name makes Rus start, staring up at Edge with wide-eyed vulnerability. There’s a thread of hesitant trust there, and Edge hates that he’s going to have to make use of it to spare Rus from a far greater travesty. 

“Breathe with me,” he says firmly, pantomiming taking a deep, exaggerated breath. One of his former roommates had been prone to panic attacks after one of her procedures went poorly. Edge is unpleasantly familiar with the wild-eyed blankness in Rus’s expression, but thankfully he responds readily to Edge’s direction, taking a desperate gulp of air alongside Edge’s even, measured inhale.

Edge can give him enough time to repeat the cycle twice, the third breath managing to be almost level and calm again. Then Edge reaches out with the small thread of magic he still has available to him and drags Rus’s soul swiftly and painlessly into the open, right through his scrabbling fingers. Thankfully he’s too shocked to be outraged, gaping dumbfoundedly up at Edge as the doctor steps forward to take her sample. The sharp pinch of the needle in his soul makes Rus squeal, but she’s good at her job. It’s over in an instant, and she examines the contents of the syringe with pleasure.

“You don’t have any LOVE, I see,” she observes mildly, casting an intrigued glance towards the exposed soul. “No soul scars or calcification. That’s rare among our patients. I haven’t seen a soul as pure as yours in quite some time.”

Rus’s only response is a choked gurgle, and Edge quickly releases his hold, allowing Rus’s soul to retreat back into the safety of his chest cavity.

“Get dressed,” Edge tells Rus firmly, willing him not to say anything about the use of magic. The doctors know he still has some -- Edge’s body wouldn’t hold together if he was completely cut off from his magic -- but he doesn’t like to remind them of it, and he sincerely doesn’t want them to think of calling on him every time they need a monster’s soul brought forth without their consent. 

It’s a mixed relief that Rus simply obeys, his expression dull as he retrieves his clothing. All the resistance has been worn out of him for the moment, and Edge can only hope his silent docility isn’t a permanent consequence of what Edge did to him.

“You can return to your room,” the doctor tells them, gathering up her tools and samples. “I’ll see you both same time tomorrow.”

Neither Edge nor Rus make the effort to reply as they file out of the examination room, Edge limpingly leading the way back to the tiny cell Rus can now expect to call home.   
  



End file.
